


Get Better

by marvelandimagine



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Anger Management, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 09:33:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9228923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marvelandimagine/pseuds/marvelandimagine
Summary: Vladimir x reader. The events that unfold after Vladimir hits the reader during a fight. CW: physical violence/abuse





	

It’s one of the first times that Vladimir is left speechless, watching your face shift from anger to pure shock and grief in a blink. All he can do is stammer your name and a weak “I didn’t mean to, I’m so sorry.”

The pained look of absolute betrayal and disbelief you give him – the tears welling in your beautiful eyes– cuts even deeper than your shaking whisper of “Fuck you. Get out.”

He moves to touch your arm as he blinks quickly, fighting the guilt in his stomach that threatens to wrench him apart and staring at you in shock when your switchblade is out in an instant; your voice rising to a strangled yell of, “DO NOT FUCKING TOUCH ME!”

He holds up his hands immediately, swallowing down the panic in his throat. How could he have just done that to you, his принцесса, his world, what the fuck was wrong with him?

He stammers your name weakly once more before you gesture at the door again, slamming it behind him with such resounding force that he’s surprised the hinge didn’t break.

Vladimir stands staring at the door, hearing the locks click into place and his blue eyes sting with shame. For once, he’s utterly at a loss for what to do or say. How could he come back from this, how was he ever going to convince you to forgive him? His first instinct was to just kick the door in and beg you to listen, but after what had just happened, he had a feeling it would only make things worse.

He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out his iPhone and his tattooed thumbs type hurriedly: “I know I fucked up, it was accident. It’ll never happen again, I promise. I am so sorry; you know you’re my life, красотка. I love you, please listen to me.”

He sees your read receipt turn on, hears your muffled sobbing through the door. You don’t respond. It’s too much for him to handle, to wait. He needs action, needs to fix things now. The second his knuckles hit the door, he’s met with your choked scream: “LEAVE!”

He drags himself down the hall and out of the building, his attention turned back to his phone screen as he presses his brother’s name. The guilt and the panic of potentially just ruining your relationship permanently is moving from the pit of his stomach to pressing on his lungs and searing into his throat; his voice constricted with emotion when his brother finally answers.

“Tolya,” he whispers, biting at his lip to try to stop the torrent of emotion threatening to spill out and over him. “I fucked up. I fucked up.”

Having to say the words out loud when Anatoly asks what happened pushes the blond over the edge; it gives a damning concreteness to what he did, an inescapable truth that he chose to hurt you.

“I hit her. I hit Y/N.”

Tolya erupts into a string of Russian expletives, only causing his younger brother to cry harder. He stops mid-sentence when he recognizes the sound of Vladimir sobbing on the other end; his back against the cold alley wall and one hand clutching at his face in a futile attempt to contain the pain that spills out like blood from a stab wound.

“I don’t know what to do. Tell me what to do, Tolya, please. I can’t lose her.”

It’s only 10 minutes before Anatoly pulls up in a Veles cab and Vladimir slides into the passenger seat, his eyes fixed on the ground and avoiding the well-deserved heat in his brother’s gaze.

Anatoly softens slightly, though, at the close sight of his brother. He’s never seen him look so distraught, so helpless.

He sighs, pulling a cigarette out of the box in the cup holder and passing it to Vladimir.

“You stay at my place tonight. We’ll talk when we’re there, ok?”

Vladimir is uncharacteristically silent, staring miserably at the cigarette he’s now rolling in his fingers. What would talking do, it wouldn’t change what he did, wouldn’t change how he saw your bright eyes go dark. Wouldn’t change the way you stared at him like he was a stranger. Wouldn’t stop him hating every fiber of his being.

“Volodya?”

Vladimir nods mechanically, pulling out his own lighter as he rolls down the window, lighting up and blowing smoke out into the cold night air.

He hasn’t felt this much regret since the day he got brought to Utkin. And god, he would spend another lifetime there if it meant he could take back what he did. If it meant he could still be with you.

-

It’s only been a week and a half since you kicked Vladimir out of the apartment, a week filled with incessant texts, calls, sober and drunk voicemails and flowers left at your door. As much as you missed him like hell, as much as you knew you still loved him and wanted him back with you, you also know this was the breaking point in your relationship. Yeah, he could be moody and yell and argue more than most, but he always made sure to show you how much he loved you, cared about you. He’d apologize, promise to try to leave the stress of work there and not bring it back with him. He never hit you – you never even thought he would, part of why you loved him was that he made you feel safe.

But that night shattered everything, shattered your passivity in letting his very real problem with his rage slide. He didn’t just hurt your body, he made your heart grieve and doubt in a way you didn’t know possible. And that wasn’t something you could just forget or forgive right away.

You weren’t answering his calls or texts because you knew he knew what the problem was. If he worked on it, honestly committed to working on real change in his anger issues, then it’d be different. But you weren’t chasing after him to do that anymore.

You hear a knock at your door, gazing wearily up from your couch and rubbing at your eyes. Vladimir wasn’t the only one crying hard and constant throughout the week.

You shuffle to the door, squinting into the peephole and jump starting your heart rate at the familiar sight of blond, artfully disheveled spikes of hair. You were honestly surprised he hasn’t showed up sooner, but you had a strong feeling that Anatoly had something to do with that.

Vladimir looks about as good as you feel, exhaustion radiating out of him from the dark shadows under his eyes to the stubble lining his jaw. He’s holding a folder in his hand and flowers – this time lilies, your favorite – in the other.

Fuck it. You were going to have to see him at some point.

You take a deep breath and unlock the door, staring at each other wordlessly. He looks so miserable and it takes all of you not to take him into your arms, play with his hair like you always do and kiss him until you feel him grin against your lips. You have to remember what happened.

You nod your head and he steps into your apartment; you feel his eyes fixed on you even as you turn to shut the door.

You turn to face him and the flowers and folder are quickly shoved into your hands.

“You have every right to .. to stop things with us. To hate me. But I still, I still love you so much. I know I fucked up, know things need to change - I need to change. And I want to try. Not bullshit try, but for real. I don’t want to lose you, Y/N.”

You swallow thickly, the softness in his voice and the tear you see drop and run down his scar bringing tears of your own into your eyes. But these are words – you need to see proof that he’ll really change.

As if he reads your mind – you have been together for almost half a year now – Vladimir nods to the folder.

“I know you’d need to see I meant it.”

You open the folder carefully, greeted with a small number of handouts. The one on top is emblazoned with the name of a counseling center, with smaller letters underneath declaring it as “a top facility for anger management therapy.”

The next few sheets all have different anger management strategies and even small slots for documenting successful and unsuccessful incidents. You see phrases like “understanding triggers” and “psychology behind anger.” But what finally gets you, finally makes you start to cry, is seeing a neatly scrawled out prescription for Prozac.

You place the folder on the counter, surprised at the clarity in your voice even through your tears.

“Never again, right?”

He shakes his head adamantly.

“Never.”

It’s a blur as you move toward him; you’re suddenly in his arms and against his chest and god he feels like home and you missed him and you’re crying but smiling because he’s doing it, he’s going to get help and he’s here and back with you; things are going to change. For the first time in awhile, you truly believe in him, and that only makes you believe in the two of you together more than ever.

He’s shaking slightly against you and you look up, his tears and small smile matching your own as he brings his lips to meet yours before pulling away, his forehead on yours and his thumb stroking against your cheek adoringly.

“Thank you. I love you, принцесса.”

“I love you too. You’re gonna get better and we’ll get better.”

Vladimir hums in response and you can’t help but laugh through your tears at seeing his familiar grin break across his face. You grab his face with both hands and bring his lips to crash against yours, your head filling with a kind of warmth that only comes with the bright, tangible promise of healing, growth and love.


End file.
